


Remember and Redo

by authoressnebula (authoressjean)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Episode: s04e14 Sex and Violence, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:00:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23722015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressnebula
Summary: Sequel to "Forget and Forgive": Two weeks after Sam woke up, he's still sore, and Dean's still the big brother Sam missed. And finally, the missing memories begin to return.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Forget and Forgive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23721922) by [authoressnebula (authoressjean)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressnebula). 



> Sequel to "Forget and Forgive" - this will make no sense if you haven't read that fic.

It was two weeks later that Sam remembered something. Funnily enough, it was while he was standing in the candy section of the gas station they'd stopped at. The candy bar in front of him tugged at his mind, and when he frowned, a memory came forward. The same candy bar in Dean's hand  
  
 _as Sam gazed at the newspaper. The words were blurred, but the picture showed officials in front of trees. “This could be something,” Sam said.  
  
Dean's words were muttered, and the gaze moved from the paper to Dean, who was crumpling up the candy bar wrapper. A twist in his gut, and Sam put the paper down. “Dean-”  
  
“We'll do the hunt,” Dean said. The wrapper was tossed into a trash bin, and Dean headed for the door of the blurred place around them. Sam quickly folded the paper and moved fast to follow Dean to the car. Dean hadn't left him behind yet, but his hands were clenched and after everything_  
  
Fingers filtered into his vision, and Sam started, turning to Dean, who was watching him in concern. “You okay?” he asked, before his frown deepened. “You sore? We can stretch for a little bit more before-”  
  
“I'm okay, Dean,” Sam assured him. Dean relaxed, but only a little. Sam raised his eyebrow and continued, “Really. We haven't been in the car that long; I can handle more.”  
  
“You'd tell me if you couldn't, right?” Dean insisted, and Sam nodded.  
  
“I'd tell you. Trust me, I'd tell you.”  
  
Dean finally relaxed all the way and gave his nod. “Yeah, all right. You want anything?” He snagged the candy bar that Sam had focused on and used it to give a friendly wave at Sam. Sam chuckled and shook his head, and with a shrug Dean headed for the register. Sam didn't have to look to know that his brother was still watching him. It made him smile.  
  
Even as he frowned. Because what had that been? A memory? It had felt real; from reading the paper to his gut twisting at Dean's distant behavior. And he'd seen that paper before, but-  
  
The hunt. Sam stiffened and glanced over at Dean. Dean was giving a flirtatious smile to the cashier, who blushed but grinned as she tallied up the purchase. He'd been smiles and the big brother Sam had known for years ever since Sam had woken up two weeks ago to a messed up hotel room and both Bobby and Dean hovering anxiously.  
  
He hadn't remembered anything about the hunt then, except for a snippet of a newspaper. Dean had been relieved, and considering the aftermath of the hunt, Sam had understood. Thirty-two stitches. Severe blood loss. Concussion. Out for five days. Fever, infection, sprained ankle, pulled muscles, if just to think of some. It'd been bad, worse than usual. And the memories that had seemingly been bleached and wiped from his mind hadn't helped either, though they'd certainly made Dean relax.  
  
But the memory of a whispered conversation to Bobby still lingered in the back of his mind. Dean's words ran through his head, his brother sounding wrecked and tired and scared.  
  
 _It's bad enough I remember what happened. If Sam doesn't remember, then good.. If he finds out what happened, or if he remembers, I'm gonna see that look on his face again, and I...I can't. I can't, Bobby..._  
  
Maybe something else had happened. Maybe Dean wasn't telling him what had happened, still, for another reason.  
  
“Sammy?”  
  
Sam turned to see Dean with the bag, his brother's eyebrows raised. The concern in his eyes, though, made Sam move. Slowly, because his side still hurt, but he was moving. “Yeah, I'm coming,” he said, and when he reached Dean and his brother's eyes still hadn't cleared, Sam gently nudged him with his elbow. “You movin' or what?”  
  
“Bitch,” Dean tossed his way. He grinned as he said it, and Sam knew the endearment for what it was.  
  
“Jerk,” he threw back, and they headed out for the car together. Together, like they hadn't been in so long. Things were good between them, better, even with the angels and Ruby still floating around. Sam didn't need to remember what had happened. If he'd gotten his big brother back because of it, albeit through the very hard way of getting his brother back, then Sam didn't care.  
  
Still...he wondered.

* * *

Two weeks, two days after Sam had woken up, and they still weren't looking for hunts. Dean hadn't asked him to look, and refused to look for himself.  
  
So Sam decided it was high time they did.  
  
The only time he could snag the laptop (Dean had confiscated it as soon as Sam was up and looking at it, talking about hunts) was while Dean took a shower (which tended to be short these days). By the time Dean had come out, pajama pants already on as he quickly dried his hair with the towel, Sam had a hunt. Dean stopped short when he caught sight of Sam with the laptop open beside him, both facing Dean, and Sam could've sworn Dean paled a little. “I've got details about a haunted house only about sixty miles from here,” Sam said, keeping his voice soft. “Sounds like an easy spirit case.”  
  
“No,” Dean said immediately, just as Sam had predicted. “Absolutely not.”  
  
Sam sighed, and felt pleased for a brief moment when it didn't pull on his wound. “Dean, it's been two weeks. I'm-”  
  
“Still limping and moving slow,” Dean interrupted, tossing the towel back into the bathroom. Messy again, instead of insisting everything be put in place so Sam couldn't possibly trip over anything. Sam was actually glad it was messy; he'd missed it.  
  
Of course, he'd missed his take-charge, big brother more, so really, either way was okay with him. Messy or OCD clean that rivaled Sam's...it was all good.  
  
“You've done hunts where you've been worse off than I am right now,” Sam countered, raising an eyebrow. “And don't tell me-”  
  
“That's different,” they finished together. Sam crossed his arms, but too quickly, and the movement of his arm pulled his wound and made him flinch. “And _that_ is why we're not hunting,” Dean said, lips pressed together. It wasn't the blind anger Sam had been seeing all year, though: it was obvious worry for Sam.  
  
“Dean-”  
  
“No, Sam, end of story. We're not  
  
 _taking this hunt,” Dean insisted, shoving the laptop across the table. The room was blurred, but the door looked familiar, like many of the thousand doors Sam had passed through in his lifetime. Sam barely caught the laptop, and managed to close it before standing, his fists clenched.  
  
“You know what, Dean? I've had it up to here with you. First you're all about hunting every day, run run run and no rest, not even for a hotel room, and now? Now you're not willing to take an easy case about-?”  
  
The words were felt in his mouth, but not heard. Dean heard them, though, and shoved away from the table, almost knocking the chair over. “No, Sam, I really don't. But you go on ahead, since I'm 'holding you back',” and the sneer in his voice made something inside of Sam's chest break. Damn Dean and his insistence on keeping Sam's words, supernaturally fueled, alive and well.  
  
Of course, Sam was doing the same with Dean's words, and right now, he didn't know whose words were truthful, and whose words rang false.  
  
“You know, maybe I should,” Sam snarled, pushing the hurt down as deep as it would go, where the grief and worry and fear were residing. “Since, you know, I'm a little brother who needs backup. Oh wait, that's right, I'm NOT a little brother anymore, am I?”  
  
Dean's face was wide open for a moment, hurt and something else Sam couldn't place, and then it was closed off. Like Dean always was these days. “Fine,” Dean said, low and monotone. “We'll take the hunt. Wouldn't want to be the weak one between us.”  
  
He turned away and grabbed his jacket before Sam could take back anything, before Sam could try and formulate how he could take any of it back. “I'm going to the bar down the road. Try not to worry yourself or anything on my account_  
  
Sammy?”  
  
Sam blinked twice, then moved his gaze down to where Dean was crouched in front of him, eyebrows knit in worry. “I'm fine,” Sam said automatically, though he had no idea what Dean had asked of him. He was fairly certain it was about his health; that seemed to be Dean's main question these days.  
  
Dean shook his head. “No, Sammy, you're not,” he said, but it was soft, not argumentative. “You did this a couple days ago, at the gas station; what's going on?”  
  
And suddenly, Sam was caught right back to where he'd started months and months ago, with Dean asking a simple question with an easy answer, and Sam lying because he thought he could keep Dean safe. He parted his lips to answer, and a more clear memory came to mind. Of Dean's voice, broken in all the ways Sam had hoped it never would.  
  
 _He doesn't need to remember...god, Bobby, his face..._  
  
A hand brushed against his forehead, and Sam instinctively shied away. “You don't feel warm,” Dean said, biting his lower lip. “Talk to me, Sammy.”  
  
“Dizzy,” Sam said simply, because that was the truth; he _was_ feeling a little dizzy at the moment. Without a moment's hesitation Dean had his elbow and was bringing him to standing, patient and slow until Sam was upright and against him.  
  
“Bed,” was Dean's simple reply.  
  
“It's three in the afternoon,” Sam complained, even as he walked with Dean towards the bed.  
  
“Tough, I don't care.” Dean sat him down, and within a few seconds Sam was laying down, covered to his chin. Dean's hand paused, his fingers loose over the blanket, his eyes dark with worry. “I'm not risking you on a hunt when you're spacing out because you're too tired to rest and you're pushing it,” he finally said. “I won't. I _can't_ , Sammy. Not after what-” and he broke off, his voice scratched and his throat swallowing convulsively.  
  
Sam winced at the stark emotion on Dean's face. It was better that he'd held Dean's question off until later. Dean looked as wrecked and scared now as he had when Sam had finally woken up, asking what had happened. He slid his hand out from under the covers and placed his hand over Dean's. “Then I'll sit it out,” he said softly. “Or...I don't know, come sit in the car or carry salt for you or something. But Dean, we can't sit and do nothing. If someone got hurt in that house or somewhere else because I'm dragging you out of the hunt? I don't think...” It was his turn to swallow hard, even as Dean's tight, worried face relaxed, his eyes widening as he saw where Sam was going with it. “I don't think I could live with myself,” he finished quietly, his voice barely a whisper.  
  
“Sammy...” Dean gazed at him long and hard, and Sam gazed back, biting his lip and hoping. Finally Dean nodded, though he didn't look happy about it. “Yeah, okay. We'll do the hunt. IF,” he added quickly, his free hand coming up to point at Sam. “ _If_ the hunt is as easy as you say it is. I'll do some research while you rest, see if it comes up pretty decent. If not, we don't do it. And put those eyes away; your doe-eyes should be made illegal,” he muttered. Sam rolled his eyes but grinned, and Dean grinned back.  
  
“If it doesn't pan out, then...?”  
  
“I'll find something easier, like a unicorn or something.” Sam snorted at that and pinched Dean's hand, making his brother's grin widen even further. “Bet they're bound to be easy.”  
  
“Yeah, like the pixies you thought would be a breeze,” Sam countered, and both brothers cringed at the remembered hunt.  
  
Dean sighed and stood, a fond smile on his face as he regarded Sam, and Sam couldn't honestly remember when his brother had been so unguarded around him. It'd been a long time. “Get some rest,” Dean said softly. “I'll do some digging, and I'll order pizza in a couple of hours.”  
  
“Are you intending on waking me up when it arrives?” Sam asked, then immediately yawned. When he could see again, Dean's grin was answer enough. “You better wake me up,” Sam warned, but he burrowed down into the bed even as he spoke.  
  
“Sure thing,” Dean said cheerfully, and Sam groaned as any suffering little brother would. Dean headed for the laptop, sliding the chair out a little further than he needed to so Sam could still see him. Sam smiled and let the pillow take the full weight of his head.  
  
It let him think about the memory piece he'd remembered earlier. Another angry fight between them, another fight Sam had instantly regretted having, and it made something in Sam's chest tighten and ache. Dean had been just as hurt and guilty as Sam had been, and he didn't understand why he hadn't seen it before. They'd both been guilty over words said, both been hurt over words said, for months. They'd just been hiding it differently, dealing with it differently, like they always had. Sam wondered when he'd forgotten that. For all their likenesses, they were total opposites sometimes, too.  
  
At least they weren't stuck on the words and actions of the Siren incident anymore. They'd been so lost that week after, so angry and so tense and so distant. Now, they were back on track, closer than they'd been since Dean had been dragged downstairs. More in tune with each other since that last day before four of the longest months Sam had ever lived through.  
  
“You're thinking.”  
  
Sam glanced to Dean, who was still typing, eyes locked on the screen. “Go to sleep, Sammy,” he said, never once moving his gaze.  
  
Sam slowly began to smile, and let his eyes slide shut. “Wasn't thinking,” he couldn't help but add, his voice soft and sleepy, and Dean's affectionate snort made Sam smile even more as he drifted off.


	2. Chapter 2

_“One shot.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Let's go right.”  
  
“Left's better with the terrain.”  
  
“Will you listen to me?”  
  
“Will YOU?”  
  
“Just...you have to make the shot count.”  
  
“I know; I'm not stupid or weak.”  
  
“I didn't say you were-”  
  
“You DID, though, and that's what matters.”  
  
“What about what YOU said?”  
  
“We're going left.”  
  
“Aim low.”  
  
“I know; I've hunted this before, with Dad. While you were gone off.”  
  
“You know, you've made choices and mistakes in your lifetime, too. I haven't shoved them in your face.”  
  
“Was that before or after I held you back?”  
  
“Fine; you wanna pick apart words that I didn't actually say myself? Go for it. I'll be on the trail to the right.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Fine. Dean, wait-”  
  
“What? I'm going right.”  
  
“...Just...make sure you're ready to take the shot.”_  
  
“Sammy?”  
  
Sam glanced to the left, then shook himself. No; Dean really did look that worried. “You're staying in the car,” Dean insisted, before Sam could say anything.  
  
“Dean-”  
  
“That's the _third time_ , Sammy. We took the case, but you've blanked out _three times_ , and it's...it's scaring me, okay?” Dean admitted, and Sam's gut twisted.  
  
“I don't mean to.”  
  
Dean heaved a sigh and lowered his head towards the steering wheel. “I know you don't, but...this could be a lot of things, like...like residual damage from...” He shut his eyes tight, and Sam reached out, his grip solid and steady around Dean's shoulder.  
  
“I'm not bleeding from my nose, I can't taste anything copper in the back of my throat, I don't have a headache...I'm just tired, like you said, and pushing myself too hard,” he said. He probably really was, in all honesty. “I'll be okay, though. If it gets worse, I'll tell you.”  
  
Dean slowly raised his head slightly from the steering wheel, and Sam gave him a small smile. “You ready?” he asked.  
  
“You're on salt duty,” Dean said for the fourth time that day. “And _nothing else_.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes because he knew Dean was expecting him to. Dean's shoulder relaxed beneath his hand, just like Sam had expected it to. “Fine,” he said, his tone softer and gentler than it had been in his memory. He let his lips turn up and said, “You can do the digging; I'll sit back and watch your progress.”  
  
“Bitch,” Dean grumbled as he moved out of the car.  
  
“Jerk,” Sam shot back, but there wasn't any anger. No sniping at each other, no heated glares, no words spit and then immediately wished back. Only a friendliness and a brotherhood that hadn't been there for awhile.  
  
And two weeks, three days after Sam had woken up, he was still awed and amazed that it was back. That _they_ were back.  
  
The trunk shut, and Sam hurried to get out of the car before Dean came around to help him out. Sam closed his door and reached out just as Dean rounded the trunk, and Dean pursed his lips before, reluctantly, handing the salt over. “I'll be fine,” Sam assured him. “This one's easy enough we could do it with our eyes closed, Dean.”  
  
Dean didn't answer, just started walking away, shoulders tight with tension. Angry, worried tension, and Sam wondered briefly how many other tension-filled moments of the past few months had been that way and he hadn't seen.  
  
The case was incredibly easy, though. Only one person had really died in the house; tripped and fell down the stairs. Buried in a grave in the cemetery on the outskirts of town, and was supposedly reported to mope and groan in the house. Only two injuries, but the last one had been enough for the cops to warn people off the premises. Dean had gotten inside and done a little EMF searching, but nothing had popped. Which meant it was just the spirit in an empty house. Easy close case.  
  
The digging took awhile. After the first five minutes, where Sam good-naturedly rubbed it in that he wasn't digging, and Dean good-naturedly replying in kind, Sam wound up just wishing he could help. As much as he'd said he'd be fine to sit it out, apparently he wasn't.  
  
The pushing in his mind of _something_ just out of reach wasn't helping, either.  
  
“Hey, Dean?”  
  
“You're not digging,” Dean said, and Sam huffed, irritated. Dean stopped digging and raised his eyebrow at Sam, sweat and dirt mixing on his face. “Give me a break, Sam; I know what you were gonna ask, and the answer's no.”  
  
“Get it done in half the time,” Sam coaxed, giving a bright, eager smile.  
  
Dean just gave him a look, and Sam sunk back down to his kneeled crouch. “Fine, be that way,” he mumbled, and Dean chuckled.  
  
“You'll get your turn to shine in a little bit, Sammy. No one can do the salt like you can.”  
  
“You lookin' for me to pour it on you now?” Sam joked, and Dean tossed a handful of dirt up at him. Sam grinned and made a show of scooting back, but made sure he was still within Dean's sight.  
  
He wasn't the only one lately who needed to be able to see his brother.  
  
Dean fell back into the rhythm of digging, and Sam fell back into thoughtful concentration. The little snippets of his memories weren't something he'd been trying to focus on; in fact, he'd been trying to _not_ think about them, because Dean had been right. Sam didn't want to remember. He had enough memories of them being distant, of arguing, of being so disconnected that hunting would've gotten dangerous.  
  
And he _knew_ that was what had happened out there. He had no memory of what had actually transpired on the hunt, but he knew the reason he'd gotten hurt. He was lucky Dean hadn't gotten hurt; it could've gone a lot worse, as distracted and out of it as they both were in the memories.  
  
A lot of it was still hazy, too. Places were blurred, images were unclear, and words were dropped out of the conversation. But the intonation of the voices, the look on Dean's face, the feeling and emotions inside of himself? Those were as clear as a bell.  
  
Still, even as much as Sam didn't like thinking about the memories, the curious side of him insisted on wanting to know it all. The desperation, the brokenness, the _fear_ in Dean's voice after Sam had woken up made Sam want to cringe. Nothing should ever have made Dean sound like that. _Nothing_.  
  
Bobby had suggested that he'd possibly remember on his own, maybe selective amnesia, but Dean had paled instantly, and Sam had counter-suggested that he might not, and he was okay with not knowing.  
  
 _“You're okay with not knowing which direction it's coming from?”_  
  
Sam blinked, then blinked again. Dean was still digging, and didn't look any further down than before. “Did you say something?” Sam asked tentatively.  
  
“What?” Dean panted, glancing up at Sam. “No, Sammy, I didn't; why?”  
  
“Nothing, I just thought I heard something,” Sam said with a small smile. “It's nothing to worry about.”  
  
Dean's gaze narrowed before he pointed to Sam's left. “Shotgun's loaded with salt in the duffel,” he said. “Get it out; I want you armed. Just...be careful with the hold, all right? I don't want you to jerk and undo the last two weeks of healing.”  
  
 _“Just...watch the trees; that's where it'll be.”_  
  
Dean was still gazing at him, no extra worry on top of what he already had, and Sam nodded, moving to the duffel. The sawed-off shotgun lay in the center underneath the lighter fluid, and Sam pulled the shotgun out, double-checked it, and then sat back with it across his lap. Only then did Dean start re-digging. “Almost done,” he called out, and Sam didn't know who he was trying to assure more.  
  
But he was grateful, because at this point, the _something_ he hadn't been able to reach before was quickly becoming something very close. And at the speed it was coming at, Sam was a little worried about getting run over.  
  
 _“Left.”  
  
“You take left, I'll go right.”  
  
“Dean, aren't you worried about-”  
  
“Keep your voice down; it's got ears.”_  
  
The shovel landed with a heavy clang, and Sam jumped a little, and Dean winced as he climbed out. “Sorry,” he said apologetically, and Sam waved him off. “Your turn to be a shinin' star, Sammy.”  
  
Sam nodded and set the shotgun back down into the duffel, and stood, the salt in his hand. The grave was open and ready for action, and Dean had everything he needed to light it up. They glanced at each other in silent communication, before Sam turned to the bones and began throwing salt crystals.  
  
Despite his wound, he managed to cover all the remains. The wind picked up suddenly, and Sam was already turning to Dean, the bag of salt still in his hands. “Sammy, _drop_!” Dean shouted just as Sam faced him, and the shotgun was in Dean's hands, aimed straight to take the shot as soon as Sam was down, and Sam's knees gave and he fell, the world blurred, because it _all_ came flooding back.  
  
And Sam knew why Dean had wanted him to forget.  
  
Because they'd separated. Split up, not through mutual decision, but because they were stubborn and insistent. The ground had been dry, twigs and rocks everywhere making the terrain difficult. They hadn't watched each other's backs  
  
 _and the twig had snapped underneath Sam's feet, just a tiny pressure, nothing at all like a huge creature, but Dean had turned around, suddenly appearing out of the dark foliage_  
  
with the gun in his hand, and Dean was shooting now, the shotgun going off well above Sam's head, the spirit wailing as it disappeared, except  
  
 _there'd been no noise until Dean had fired the gun, had only heard the twig breaking and reacted, and Sam had felt the bullet hit deep into his side, wavered and stared at Dean with hurt and pain and betrayal and grief and shock, hand going to his side_  
  
and Dean pulled out the extra shell from his pant pocket, loading the gun again and yelling, “Sammy?” as he ran forward towards Sam, arm  
  
 _dropping the gun, staring in horror and growing terror as Sam clasped his side, stumbling backwards in the few seconds after the bullet had hit, and Dean was still staring, silent and frozen in the middle of the forest, and the ground was suddenly not there beneath Sam's feet, and he flew backwards, over the edge of the ravine, to the rocks that punctured him as he rolled, the hurtling speed as he kept falling and falling, dizzy and scared and still stunned because Dean had shot him, and right before the final rock, Dean finally screamed_  
  
“Sammy?!”  
  
Sam tumbled forward, right into his brother's arms. “I got you, m'right here,” Dean murmured, his breath harsh and his heart pounding fast, reverberating against Sam's own chest. Sam felt light headed, wondering how fast his own heart was going. The world felt a little unstable, a little too bright, and Sam closed his eyes to shut it out.  
  
“Dean,” he whispered, and Dean's arms around him tightened.  
  
“Did it touch you? Sammy, the spirit-”  
  
“No,” Sam managed to get out. “No, it...didn't.”  
  
Dean let out a shaky breath and rested his cheek against Sam's. “God, Sammy,” he choked, before swallowing hard. “You scared the shit out of me. You just _fell_ and you kept _falling_ -”  
  
Sam still felt like he was falling. He leaned into Dean harder, trying to ground himself with his brother. Dean helpfully pulled Sam in that much closer, and Sam wound up with his forehead against Dean's neck, all but cradled by his big brother. “Not letting go,” Dean whispered, sounding a little more in control. “Swear to god, Sammy, I got you and I'm not letting go.”  
  
Sam merely shut his eyes tighter and let Dean keep him grounded.  
  


* * *

  
  
By the time they returned to the hotel, Sam was more coherent and with it. Dean had managed to lean him against a small tree in the cemetery as he'd burned the remains, then had all but dragged Sam back to the car. They hadn't taken off right away, giving Sam some time to focus on breathing without dealing with a moving car. Dean had stayed with him, a hand on his shoulder, or a thumb across his pulse, always next to him, always keeping Sam grounded.  
  
The door opened to the hotel, Dean helping Sam in. “M'fine,” Sam mumbled, and Dean cautiously, hesitantly, let Sam's elbow go to see if it was true. Sam mustered all his strength to stay standing, and Dean finally gave a nod.  
  
“You should lay down, take it easy,” Dean said, carefully arranging where the duffel bags went. Back to the OCD clean he'd been while Sam had been healing. “I'll order something in, whatever sounds good to-”  
  
“Nah, I'm-” Sam said, and the rest of the words wouldn't come out. Dean slowly set the bag down, eyebrows knitting in worry, and Sam couldn't do it. Couldn't lay down and stay in the room, had to breathe on his own, and he found himself turning back towards the door.  
  
“Sammy?”  
  
He glanced back at Dean, who was gazing at him in outright worry and concern, and these words were easier to say. “I'll be back, won't go far,” he promised softly. “I just...just need to...”  
  
And the horror and terror on Dean's face sprang to mind, clear and vivid, and Sam flinched a little, his words trailing off again. Even as Dean stared, Sam slowly opened the door and stepped outside.  
  
His wound ached a little, a ghost reminder of the original injury. For the first time in two weeks and three days, he lifted his shirt and really looked at the wound. It was big enough that you couldn't tell there'd been a bullet in there; the rocks must've ripped him apart.  
  
But there'd been a bullet in there. One shot by Dean.  
  
Sam stumbled away from the door, shirt falling back down, and finally settled on the curb beside the still warm Impala. His elbows rested on his knees that still ached a little from the fall, the five second fall that had lasted far longer than that in Sam's mind. The dizzying tailspin back into clear, vivid memories of hurt and pain.  
  
And _that_ was all the incentive Sam needed to rest his head in his hands and stare at the gravel of the parking lot.  
  
It wasn't Dean's fault. Above all and everything else, Sam knew that. They'd both been to blame for the distance between them, and it had been that distance that had distracted them both that night, kept them from being on top of their game. For god's sake, they'd been _arguing_ over simple things. Neither had been willing to relinquish control and let the other lead.  
  
The two fundamental rules of hunting had been completely and utterly ignored that night. Sam could still hear his dad's voice in his head, solid and firm. _If you're doing a hunt, your mind is locked on the hunt, or you don't do the hunt.  
  
And never, ever do a hunt with anger between you and someone else. Not when it could be your last hunt._  
  
Sam closed his eyes.  
  
The tiny creak of the door behind him didn't make him jump or move, but he still knew who it was. A moment later, something soft and warm was draped over his shoulders. “You'll get cold,” was all Dean said.  
  
Sam swallowed hard as the warmth of the soft blanket began to penetrate through his meager two layers. “Thank you,” he whispered.  
  
The silence felt tense and awkward, and Sam bit his lip, not knowing what to say, or what he needed to say. After a long moment, he could hear Dean settle down on the curb next to him, and the tense silence resumed once more. Not even a car passed on the highway yards ahead of them. No car doors slamming, no one emerging from their room. It was just them, alone and silent again.  
  
And Sam realized he couldn't do it. He couldn't go back to how things had been, back to a permanent awkwardness and tension that only dissolved when anger emerged. As much as he'd kept things from Dean, lied to keep him safe, he'd sort of been a coward, too. Attempting to avoid the fight he'd known would come. And that had only led to months of awkwardness and finally a week of solitude that had made him ache deep down in his soul at the wrongness of it.  
  
“I remember everything.”  
  
More silence followed, but it wasn't for long. “I figured,” Dean said, and his voice sounded cracked. Sam raised his head and turned to Dean, not surprised at the red eyes his brother was sporting. “You've been remembering for a few days now, haven't you?” Dean asked, and he looked almost afraid of the answer.  
  
Why Sam had thought Dean wouldn't pick up on the reason for his blanking out, he didn't know. “Yeah,” Sam said softly. “Just little snippets, here and there. Nothing linked together, except...the same hazy feeling. And tonight, it just...all came back.”  
  
Dean snorted wetly and turned back towards the parking lot, his smile bitter. “Yeah, because there's nothing better to make you remember your brother shooting you than, oh, I don't know, your brother aiming another gun at you.”  
  
“It wasn't your fault,” Sam said, and Dean whipped his head back around, staring with his jaw dropped.  
  
“Wasn't my _fault_? What bizarro world do _you_ live in that makes what I did okay?”  
  
“I didn't say it was okay, I said it wasn't your fault,” Sam insisted, and the annoyance and irritation at Dean sort of felt good. It wasn't the fury and righteous anger of the past few months; this felt more like the anger of a little brother not being understood. “We're both to blame for what happened that night.”  
  
“Sam-”  
  
“Do you remember what Dad used to tell us, about going on a hunt?” Dean shut up then, his lips pursed and his eyes darting back to the parking lot. “The fundamental two things that you always, _always_ had to remember?”  
  
“Stay focused on only the hunt, and don't go into a hunt with anger left between you and someone else,” Dean murmured. His eyes shone for a moment, glistening from the light of their hotel room, and he wiped a hand over his eyes. He pursed his lips, his lower one trembling, and he finally laughed, short and harsh. “I should've known it was you. I should've _known_ what your footfall sounded like, like I used to, that that noise had to be you, but I just turned and fired blindly, and when it hit, I just...I couldn't move, and you looked...and then you disappeared, and god, Sammy, I forgot how to _breathe_.”  
  
Sam gazed at him as Dean tried to steady his breathing, tried to pull it together, and finally reached out and gently clutched at Dean's shirt pocket. Dean turned towards him after a moment, and Sam said quietly, “I should've known where you were. We should've stayed together. I shouldn't have argued with you about which way we were going, or god, argued with you at all about the hunt. I shouldn't have insisted that it all be my way, and should've worked together with you, like a team, like _brothers_. I told you, the blame's on me, too.”  
  
Dean didn't look convinced. Sam took a deep breath and said what they both needed to hear. “But you didn't leave me down there. You got me out, got me help, and you're the reason I'm here right now. That's what my big brother would've done, and he did. _You_ did, Dean.”  
  
Dean was still frowning, still looked broken and wrecked, but after a moment, his eyes widened. “You don't ha...you're not mad,” he breathed, and when Sam shook his head, his shoulders dropped a solid two inches. Still, he insisted on arguing the point. “Sammy, you should-”  
  
“No, I shouldn't,” Sam said firmly. “I couldn't hate you, Dean. Ever. Don't even ask or think that I should.” He bit his lip and looked away. “It could've easily been you, Dean. If you'd made a noise first...I think I would've shot, too. And I'm taller than you, which meant my shot? Would've gone through your heart, and-”  
  
“Shut up,” Dean said, his gentle tone belying the words, and he tugged Sam over until he could put his arm around Sam's shoulders, Sam's fingers still wrapped around his shirt pocket. The silence that followed wasn't tense or awkward, and several cars passed by on the highway. Off to their right, Sam could hear a door shutting, footsteps crunching in the gravel, and a car door opening.  
  
“We've both been lost,” Dean said softly. “Haven't we.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Laughter was heard, a low conversation, before a door shut, filling in the small silence before Dean spoke again. “Sammy, I-”  
  
“It wasn't your fault, and I'm not mad or hurt.”  
  
“I'm still sorry,” Dean whispered, and the regret and grief in his voice made Sam lean a little harder into Dean, tighten his fingers a little more. Silent communication that they'd been lacking for so long was now understood without any problems, honest forgiveness the message. The gratitude at it, just as silently given, was as simple as Dean squeezing Sam's left shoulder.  
  
The tinny rock music from Dean's pocket cut through the comfortable silence. Without shifting Dean reached down and pulled out his cell, glanced once at the ID, then flipped it open. “Hey Bobby.”  
  
“Been tryin' to call Sam's cell for awhile,” Bobby said, and even without speaker-phone Sam heard him loud and clear. “How long's it take to answer a cell phone?”  
  
“Long as it needs to,” Sam called, and Dean chuckled, a little harder than he normally would've. But the smile on his face was genuine and relieved, and Sam's smile was equally as bright. They were okay. Ever after everything, they were _okay_ , were still brothers and they both knew it.  
  
“Eavesdropper,” Bobby muttered, and Sam grinned. “What's the recent news with you two?”  
  
“A few things, but...we're good,” Dean said softly, and he sounded as awed as Sam had felt. He glanced down at Sam, then spoke again, this time with a smile. “We're good.”  
  
Better than, as far as Sam was concerned. But he let his head fall onto Dean's shoulder as Dean began relating the recent events, his grip secure and comforting on Sam's shoulder, a solid and strong big brother right beside him where Sam needed him to be. Both of them, side by side once more.  
  
And two weeks, four days after Sam woke up, everything really was right again.


End file.
